


It's Cold

by mooningsammy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abrupt Ending, Confused Dean, M/M, Prostitute Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Wincest - Freeform, slight Hypothermia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 07:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14373981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooningsammy/pseuds/mooningsammy
Summary: Sam has feelings he can't let go.





	It's Cold

**Author's Note:**

> this fic contains:
> 
> a hastily written ending  
> angst  
> brotherlove

Sam was shivering in the December air. It was late, almost midnight, and the brick wall behind him was scratchy through his hoodie. There were cigarette butts littering the ground around him, along with busted glass from countless beer bottles tossed carelessly out of intoxicated hands.

“You're a pretty one,” a voice said, the alcohol on his breath making Sam fight the urge to crinkle his nose. He sighed a little, biting his lip.

“Do you know how to give a man a good time, little one?”

He shivered. He didn't like it when they called him that, but he had to play nice or he wouldn't get paid. He nodded, fingers running down the man's thigh. The man’s hands were warm on his ass, digging in and leaving bruises.

Sam blinked away the pain and trailed the man to his SUV.

x

It wasn't as cold, but Sam had enough ice in his heart that it might as well be. He pressed his palm against his sternum, waiting for the pain to subside. It was a bad day.

“Hey, you okay?”

If he wasn't already a block of ice in the cold, Sam would have frozen. As in stop all movement immediately. Because he _knew_ that voice. “Fine,” he answered quickly.

His baggy clothes covered most of his recognizable features. But that didn't mean he wouldn't be recognized.

“Are you sure? Man, it's freezing out here.”

Sam began to shake. He didn't wanna do this. Not now. “You should get inside, the motel has cable.”

“Dude,” the voice said. “Okay, suit yourself.”

Sam looked up as he walked away, and he felt his limbs weighing him down. “Dean.”

He stopped midstride, spun on his heel, met Sam’s gaze. His jaw fell open. “Sammy?”

Sam tugged his sleeves down over his hands, studied Dean’s posture. “You look good.”

“Sammy, what… You do this… for money?”

Sam just shrugged. What could he say? I'm trying to get over you, big brother?

“Sammy, no. Just… no. Don't do this. Stop this. I can't leave you here when I know this is what you're doing. If… anything else, Sammy, if you wanted anything else, I would give it to you. But selling your body like this…”

Sam blinked back tears, looked at the pavement. “This isn't what I want to do, Dean. But it's better than I deserve.”

He wasn't expecting Dean’s grip on his arms, so when he felt his brother holding onto him, he nearly collapsed against him. “How am I supposed to take care of you, Sammy, when you run away from me to do _this_? I'm supposed to take care of you.”

Sam shivered.

“Come on, Sammy. Let's get you out of the cold.”

He was pliant in Dean’s hands, letting himself be dragged along to Dean’s room, but it was different than with the people who paid for him. He _wanted_ to go with Dean.

“I'm sorry, Dean.”

“Sam--”

“Wait, just… Just listen to me.”

Dean paused long enough to meet Sam’s eyes. “Can I at least get you somewhere warm, Sammy? You're turning blue.”

Inside, Dean headed into the bathroom, filling the tub with lukewarm water. Sam just watched, until Dean turned to him. “Strip, Sam. In the water. Come on, I'm not gonna sit back and watch you deal with hypothermia.” When Sam was too slow, Dean rolled his eyes and started pulling at Sam’s clothes, ignoring the squawk of protest from Sam.

The water felt too hot, even though it was obviously just warm, and Sam was colder than he realized. So he curled in on himself, and tried to ignore Dean’s gaze, a gaze that could pull him apart, make him spill everything.

“Sammy,” he prompted softly.

“I don't want you to have to look at me differently, Dean.” He rested his chin on his arms. “I… didn't want to have to tell you this… so I took off. And it was a mistake, it only put off the inevitable, because here we are.”

Dean's fingers pushed his hair back, and then he walked out of the room. “Warm up, dry off, get dressed, and come talk to me Sammy. Nothing you say can change my mind about you.”

He watched Dean sit down on one of the beds and fall backward from where he sat in the tub.

Why did Dean have two beds in his hotel room?

Getting up was a challenge. His body was stiff, over 200 pounds of hypothermia-damaged muscle and barely any will to actually move.

But he did it, and he toweled off, pulling on boxers and sweatpants from the bag that had been discarded on the floor by the sink.

At least he wasn't cold anymore. Just achy.

Dean looked up at him when he sat down on the other bed. “Feel any better, Sammy?”

Sam nodded, trying to determine which mood Dean was in, if he would be able to tell Dean exactly what was going on, and if he would get kicked out for it.

No. Dean wouldn't kick him out, even if he was the most uncomfortable human being after this talk.

“The first thing you have to understand is that I am seriously messed up, Dean.”

“Don't say that. You aren't.”

“You have to let me get through this before you can try and contradict me, Dean. Believe me, I know how messed up I am, that's why dad put me through a year of therapy before I decided to go to college.”

Dean flinched, sitting up. “He did what?”

Sam sighed heavily, pressing a thumb to his temple. “Dean, please. You asked me to talk and I'm trying, but you gotta stop interrupting me.”

After a moment, he heard Dean’s “yeah, okay Sammy,” and smiled a little.

“When Dad found out about me, about this thing in me, this sickness, he sat me down and asked me why. And all I could say was, he's everything. He is everything to me. So Dad pat my shoulder and took me to a psychologist, where we came up with a therapy plan for a year.” Sam tied the drawstring of his sweatpants. “Fucking for money is easy, Dean. Easier than double checking every action I make, every motion of my hands, arms, eyes, and mouth. Because some actions, they can't be taken back, Dean, and they mean too much to be forgiven or forgotten.” He looked everywhere but Dean, now, hyper-aware that Dean was staring at him like he was the center of the universe. Fucking hell. “I went to college when I was done with therapy, Dean, because I had the painful revelation--after one touch--that the therapy had done nothing for me except remind me how sick I was. How sick Dad thought I was. After Dad died… I just couldn't stand to break my promise to him. He told me, Dean, he told me if it came back that I had to deal with it. I had to… I couldn't, though. Couldn't let that go, couldn't make myself change how I feel.”

Dean was on his feet now, eyes screaming he had a weight he was carrying too, a weight too great for words in this moment.

“Because, even if it makes me sick, I love how I feel, I love that I can't feel like this about anyone else, and I'm not ashamed. I just couldn't bear to hurt you.” Dean's hand over his chest, the warm weight pressed against his tattoo, turned Sam’s eyes upward, just so he was looking down into Dean’s eyes, green eyes that were open and longing, passion and heat and something else there, something calling out to Sam like he was home, like he was the lighthouse on the sea and Dean wasn't lost any more.

“I love you,” he told Dean, voice soft and wrecked, his pain and his hope leaking out with the words, and most definitely his love, pushing through every pore in his body.

Dean’s left hand hooked around the back of his neck and pulled him impossibly closer, but he wasn't kissing him. They were just looking at each other, chest to chest, and Dean was breathing hard, his lungs heaving.

“S’this real, Sammy?” he choked out.

“It's real, De. So real.”

Dean’s lips were soft, mouth pliant, letting Sam take and take and take, it was so damn sweet, and Sam couldn't help it. He fucking whimpered, hand pushing against Dean's ass, bringing him closer, grinding down against him.

An unholy, high pitched whine elicited from Dean’s mouth, so Sam drank it in, molding his body to Dean’s as close as he could get.

x

Sam was warm, warmer than he remembered being for months. Who had he gone home with? He didn’t remember getting picked up, but his body felt like jelly, like all his muscles got just the right workout. Instead of feeling the same old dread and disgust and numbness that he did after waking up—or not falling asleep—with his usual clients.

It was then he realized he wasn’t with a client. The night came back to him. _Dean_ had come back to him. And no part of Sam’s body or soul would ever complain about that.


End file.
